


Life is Pain

by fallingwildrosepetals



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aftercare, Again safe word is used, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bondage, Cock Slapping, Crying, Depression, Dom Stan Uris, Established Relationship, Humiliation, Love, M/M, Masochism, Mental Illness, Pain Kink, Sadism, Safe Word Use, Spanking, Stanley Uris Has OCD, Stozier, Sub Richie Tozier, Verbal Humiliation, Wet Clothing Kink, career problems, cock whipping, cutting off clothes, light exhibitionism, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingwildrosepetals/pseuds/fallingwildrosepetals
Summary: Richie is going through a hard time. He doesn't want Stan to know.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Kudos: 79





	Life is Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally going to upload this into different chapters for perspective switches, but realized after that the length made that a bad decision, so I deleted the chapters and put them all in one. I'm sorry if that caused anyone confusion.

Stan sat at the kitchen table, sipping his third cup of coffee, watching a flock of grackles scratch at the ground next to the garden. The year was still young, so there was nothing for them save the scant leftover seeds clinging to rotting sunflower florets. 

The house shifted, the ceiling groaned, and Stan knew Richie was awake. Sure enough, he thumped down the stairs a few minutes later, clad in royal purple boxer briefs, glasses askew, all the hair from his head to the tops of his toes fluffed and haphazard, like a groomed kitten. 

Beautiful. 

Stan leaned back against his chair. "Look what the cat dragged in—are you a dead mouse or a hairball?" 

"Hairball,” Richie shot back, pouring a cup of coffee. “And you're the cat that coughed me up." 

"You're disgusting." Stan caught his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. 

"Lick it up, baby." Richie stuck his tongue out with a wild wiggle, then plopped on a chair with a grunt. 

Stan snorted, undignified. 

Richie smiled and hooked his foot around Stan’s ankle. They lapsed into a comfortable, morning-thick silence. 

When the wall clock ticked over to seven-thirty, Stan pushed himself up and washed his coffee cup. When it was on the drainboard, he stopped to run fingers through the tangled nest of Richie’s hair, gently working a knot loose. “You up for a scene tonight?” 

"'Course." Richie leaned back, grinning, a patch of dried saliva stuck to one unshaven cheek. 

Stan bent to kiss him. For years, the taste of Richie’s sleep-sour mouth had been intolerable, but he could no longer imagine any part of Richie as disgusting, only his. 

When Stan tried to pull back, Richie threaded his fingers in his curls and held him in place. Stan licked into his mouth hungrily, then pinched his nipple, twisting until Richie jerked away with a gasping, “ow.” 

"Okay, Needy.” Stan smirked. “I’m gonna be late." 

Richie stretched up for one more kiss, then dropped his hands. "Have fun playing with other people's money, Stanny." 

Stan pulled on his shoes, straightened his tie. "Try to do something productive today." 

“You know that’s not my style.” Richie chewed on one of his fingers. 

Stan rolled his eyes and kissed Richie’s forehead. “You’re lucky you’re good at sucking cock.” 

“Gotta earn my keep somehow.” 

****

When the faint rumble from Stan’s sensible sedan faded down the street, Richie pushed himself to his feet. 

_Wash the coffee cup. Wash the coffee cup. Wash the cup._

The air was made of molasses and it was January inside of Richie, even if it was March everywhere else. 

_Wash cup._

It would have to wait. He trudged upstairs, fighting for each step as though weights were tied to his ankles. 

Finally, finally, he was in their room. He pulled back the soft comforter and crawled into Stan’s side, burying his face in the green silk pillow. Stan’s coconut curl butter, fancy face cream, and the slightly sour smell of the back of his neck filled Richie’s nose as he fell into a not-quite-restful sleep. 

-

When he woke, it was late afternoon. Stan would be home soon. 

Richie wanted so much to stay snuggled under the covers, warm. If Stan found him in bed, he might just strip and get in next to him, wrap Richie in his arms and say quiet, soft things, like when they were kids and sleeping was somehow more terrifying than being awake. 

Stan had a way of making even darkness seem safe, like a blanket protecting them from prying eyes. 

_Be real,_ Richie thought. _Stan’ll be upset you didn’t do your sets._

Not to mention disappointed if he wasn’t ready for sex. 

Richie took a deep breath and rolled out of bed. He could do this. He could make Stan happy. 

He made the bed, changed into his scene clothes—cheap, thin white boxers and a white t-shirt—then straightened up the whole house. Richie didn’t care how clean things were, but even slightly sticky floors made Stan irate and panicky. 

-

Richie was wiping off the bathroom mirror when the garage door rumbled open. He washed his hands, ran to the play room, and stood in his spot, back to the wall. 

The door shut, the snick of the lock echoing down the hallway. Richie’s chest tightened as he waited. Then Stan was at the door, still fully suited, shiny dark curls sweeping into his eyes. 

"Safe word?" Stan asked as he undid his tie with firm pulls. 

"Magneto." 

"Good boy." Stan grabbed a glass water bottle from the mini fridge and took a long, slow sip. “You look thirsty.” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, sir. I’m thirsty.” 

Stan held the bottle to Richie’s lips and tipped the bottle up until it was gushing out of his mouth and all down his front. 

“What is wrong with you?" Stan asked, unbuttoning his wrist cuffs. "You look like a sorority girl at a wet t-shirt competition." 

Richie looked down. The soaked fabric revealed his nipples and the press of his dick as clearly as if he wore saran-wrap. Without thinking, he moved to cover himself. Stan yanked his hands away and gave his body a long look. 

"If you don’t want everyone to see your cock, don’t be so fucking messy.” Stan pinched a nipple, hard. “You dirty little slut.” 

Richie shivered, face burning. 

“Cold?” 

“I’m s-so c-cold,” he admitted. God, he was frozen right down to his soul. 

Stan grabbed Richie's arms and locked his wrists in the shackles attached to the ceiling. It hurt more than usual, in a bad way. 

Richie took a deep breath. He could do this. 

“I’ll warm you up.” Smirking, Stan grabbed a pair of scissors. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes, shall we?” 

First, he cut the shirt in slow snips, letting the blunt metal drag against Richie’s stomach, solar plexus, collarbone, shoulders. It wasn’t enough to cut him, not yet, but it burned all the same. 

When the shirt fell in a heap on the floor, Stan moved lower, slipping the closed scissors into Richie’s underwear and rubbing them against his balls. “You’re awfully quiet today,” he commented. 

Richie’s heart pounded. Could Stan tell? “I’m sorry, sir. Please don’t cut off my boxers. I’ll do anything.” 

Stan shot him a weird look and pulled the scissors from under Richie’s balls. “Should have thought of that before you got them all wet. Wouldn’t want you to get sick.” 

“Please.” Richie begged, playing the game. “I don’t want you to see me.” 

Stan dragged a sharp edge along the inside of Richie’s thigh. “Aw, are you embarrassed? Want me to cover you up?” 

“Yes—” 

Stan slapped his ass, quick and stinging. “You don’t deserve modesty.” 

Richie gaped. 

Stan’s grin was razor sharp. “In fact, I should invite all the Losers over for a show.” Stan let the blunt side of the scissors tap against Richie’s erection as he cut the boxers open.

“No.” 

“No?” Stan held the fabric together with two fingers and set the scissors aside. “What if I told you that I’m streaming this to their computers?” 

“Please, no.” 

Stan nudged Richie’s thighs apart, then ripped his boxers away. His dick bobbed painfully in the air. “Now they’ll all know what a worthless slut you are.” 

Richie’s whole body got hot. He whimpered, a little too real. 

Stan laughed in short, harsh bursts. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? You want everyone to see your dick drip.” 

“No.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Stan ran a finger down Richie’s crack, dipping into his hole. “I bet you fantasize about it while I’m at work. Everyone watching while I strip you to nothing.” 

“No, sir.”

“Liar.” He grinned. “Liars deserve to be punished.” 

Richie’s stomach dropped. One of Stan’s hands gripped his hip and the other came down on his ass. Each blow was harder, the burn spreading like wildfire, Richie’s dick swinging and slapping against his lower stomach. 

Then Stan stopped. He grabbed a black leather crop from the shelf and tested it against his hand with one, two, three earsplitting cracks. Richie shuddered. 

Stan sauntered around and closer, until the harsh wool of his suit scraped against Richie’s burning ass. “Open your legs for me.” 

Richie scrambled to obey, his legs so stretched that was balancing on the inside edges of his feet. Stan stepped back and dragged his forearm against Richie’s taint, then grabbed his dick and pulled it back to the bottom of his ass. 

Richie swallowed. 

Stan brought the crop down on the top of Richie’s dick in a series of firm taps. Pain shot through his pelvis and pooled in his belly. Stan kept tapping—Richie’s body was responding, the orgasm was building, but his chest wound tighter and tighter, vision blurring… 

“Magneto,” he whispered. 

***

“Magneto,” he whispered. 

Stan froze, panic coursing hot through him. He released Richie and unlocked the shackles, crop forgotten on the floor. 

Richie collapsed into his arms like a puppet with the strings cut. His whole body trembled—why hadn’t Stan noticed? 

Stan helped Richie to the sofa and covered him with a soft afghan. When he was secure, Stan grabbed water from the minifridge. “Drink up.” 

Richie obeyed, shivering, Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. How long had he waited before saying his safe word? Why didn’t Stan notice— _how_ didn’t Stan notice that Richie wasn’t enjoying himself?

When the water was gone, Stan put the glass bottle away. He sat on the couch and pulled Richie into his chest.

“I’m sorry.” Richie said, sniffing. 

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, heart twisting into a painful knot. “It’s okay.” He pulled his handkerchief out of his front pocket and gently dabbed at Richie’s face. 

Then, like a leaky pipe finally bursting, Richie began to cry in gasping sobs, cheeks bright red. 

Stan tightened his grip. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” He tried to infuse his tone with calm, but his guts were ice and his heart raced. What was wrong? What if he hurt Richie in a bad way? His stomach tightened and burned until he felt nauseous. He ran his hand down Richie’s chest in long, slow strokes. 

When Richie finally calmed, Stan dried his face and held the handkerchief while he blew his nose. 

“Richie,” he said, folding the handkerchief and tossing it next to the water bottle. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” Richie shifted to the other side of the sofa, rubbing his eyes. “That was really weird. I don’t know what happened.” 

“Hey.” Stan grabbed his hand. “Do we lie to each other?” 

He shook his head. 

“I’m gonna ask you again. What’s wrong?” 

Richie sighed. “I don’t…I don’t really want to talk about it, I guess. I’m sorry.” 

“Okay.” Stan bit the inside of his lip so hard he tasted blood. “I can respect that. But why not?” 

“It’s…it’s embarrassing.” 

Stan felt his expression go flat. He tried to school it into something more comforting. “Embarrassing? You saw me cry because I couldn’t get soap scum off the shower wall.” 

“True.” A small smile played at the corners of Richie’s mouth. “You wouldn’t be my Stanny if you didn’t freak the fuck out over soap scum.” 

“And you wouldn’t be my Richie without embarrassing emotional outbursts.” 

Richie buried his head in his hands. 

“Look, I’m not going to make you tell me, but I wish you would.” Stan leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the gentle curve of Richie’s shoulder. “You can tell me anything, you know that.” 

Richie was still for a long time. Stan took deep breaths and ran his fingernails down Richie’s arm. This had to be bad—Richie wasn’t great at sharing his emotions, but he rarely avoided them like this. 

“I think I’m depressed,” he said. 

Stan fought off another wave of nausea. “Why do you think that?” 

“Been sleeping a lot. Motivation’s gone. Can’t see a future.” Richie’s tone was light, careful.

“What do you mean you can’t see a future?” Stan’s voice cracked. 

He blinked. “Oh, no.” He threw his arms around Stan. “No. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant my career.” 

Stan sagged, exhaling a long breath and tucking his head into Richie’s shoulder. “I thought you were working on sets.”

“They’re not working.” A sob cut through. “Nothing I do works.” 

“Rich, that’s—”

“I thought I could at least make our relationship work, make you happy, but I can’t do that either. I’m a fucking failure at everything.” 

Stan sat back. “Why do you think I’m not happy?” 

“I’m not, uh, very productive,” he mumbled, looking away, color rising on his cheeks. “And I used my safe word.” 

“You’re such a fucking dumbass,” Stan said. 

Richie frowned. “I know.” 

“No, I don’t mean it like that.” Stan grabbed Richie’s face. “You are very intelligent in general. But fuck. You are so dumb sometimes.”

“You aren’t making sense.” 

“Shut up.” Stan rolled his eyes. “First of all, don’t you ever fucking apologize for using your safe word. That’s what it’s there for. Do you think I’d rather you pretend to enjoy it?” 

“I should be able to enjoy it,” he muttered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s normal to have a lower sex drive when you’re depressed.” 

“Do you, when…?” 

“Sometimes.”

Richie squeezed Stan’s knee. 

“I don’t need you to be productive. I make enough money to support us both. I just think that doing things is good for you.” 

“But I can’t do anything.” 

“I heard you.” He kissed the hard spot between Richie’s eyes. “You know, therapy’s helped me a lot.” 

“Except with the soap scum.” 

Stan rolled his eyes. “Soap scum is my Achilles’ Heel, okay? That doesn’t mean therapy won’t help you.” 

“Will it make you happy if I go?” 

“I’m already happy.” Stan tucked a stray black curl behind Richie’s ear. “You make me so happy, all the time.”

“Then what’s the point?” 

Stanley paused, then spoke in the gentlest tone he could muster. “So that _you_ can be happy.” 

***

Richie folded his arms across his stomach. “Who said I’m not happy?” 

“Let’s see.” Stan stared at him with his hazel eyes, bright and hawkish in their sharpness. “It’s been six months since your last show. Now that I’m thinking about it, you haven’t posted any jokes in the Losers group chat for weeks. The house is cleaner than it’s ever been. My pillow always smells like you.” 

Richie squirmed, guts twisting. “So I’m calming down. You domesticated the Trashmouth, baby. How’s it feel?” 

“Wrong,” he said. “I don’t want to domesticate you. I want you the way you are: Gross, hilarious, my best friend.” 

“I don’t want to do therapy, Stan.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’m scared.” The admission scraped away whatever emotional skin Richie had left. 

“That’s okay,” Stan whispered. “I’ll be there every step of the way.” 

Hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry. It’s my job to take care of you. I want to take care of you.” 

Richie stared at his lap, shame eating him alive. 

“Hey, baby, love of my life,” Stan said, squeezing Richie’s hands. “What would make you feel better right now?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Stan squeezed harder. 

“Jesus Christ, you sadist.” Richie sagged against the couch. “Can we just…go to bed? You know, like we used to when we were kids?” 

“Of course.” Stan kissed his knuckles. “First, do you mind if I take care of you a little?” 

“Go for it.” 

An hour later, Richie was tucked into bed, hair still damp from his shower, stomach full from dinner. Stan shut the door, slid under the covers, and wrapped him in his warm, strong arms. Richie sighed and snuggled into his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> This was born from this prompt on Tumblr: 
> 
> "Hey! So I have seen this plot done a few times but I really want maybe a rougher scene with Stanley and Richie, maybe where Richie has a pain kink if you’re up for that and he safewords out? Then Stanley panicking and trying to help out as best as possible? NSFW of course would be a factor here :)" 
> 
> If you'd like to send me a prompt, I'm [readinglikechickensoup](https://readinglikechickensoup.tumblr.com/)


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